Cooking Lessons
by HunnyfiedSmuttified
Summary: Arthur is forced into taking cooking lessons by his roommate Kiku. Guess who's teaching them? Honhonhon  Mild FrUK, AU, nothing THAT smexy, but I  had fun with this. Oh, and if you hate the f-word, go away.


"Really? Really, Kiku?"

"Hai, Asa-san." The diminutive Japanese man is adamant.

"Ugh. This is the fifth time you've shown me flyers like this."

"Well, this is the fifth time I've gone on a business trip and come home to fourteen boxes of burned toaster waffles and congealed soup in my pots and pans. You are taking cooking lessons, lest my kitchen explode one of these days."

"Mph. Fine."

* * *

><p>« Bonjour tout le monde~! How are you all today? Êtes-vous prêt pour le leçon? » A poncy Frenchman bounds into the room, and Arthur swears he can see roses bloom out of nowhere around the man's form.<p>

"No. Bloody hell, no. Kiku, I'm not doing this." Arthur attempts to whisper, but is over heard. _Damn. The flamboyant idiot is coming over here._

"Yes you are." Kiku responds, not noticing the curious teacher make his way towards the pair.

« Excusez-moi? Il y a un problème? » Francis asks, eyeing up the attractive blonde with the huge eyebrows.

"Yes. My friend blackmailed me into this, and I do not want to be taught how to cook by a bloody Frog. What's more, I can cook fine. Good day, I am leaving."

"Asa-san, you can't cook. Honestly."

« C'est vrai? Puis ne vont pas! I promise you, I will have you cooking Coq au Vin by the time this fortnight is over! » Francis smiles a cat-like grin and spreads his arms wide to emphasize his point.

"Yeah, right."

"I actually agree with Asa-chan in that you will not achieve such a feat. His cooking is worse than abysmal. Even learning from a French chef will most likely not improve him."

"Glad to hear that you have so much faith in me, Kiku. I was referring to his teaching skills, not my cooking skills." Arthur says, voice dripping with dry sarcasm.

"Well, it's true."

"Psh. I doubt I'm that hopeless."

"My stomach begs to differ."

"Fine! I'll stay and take the classes. But if I can't cook the way you seem to think I can, Monsieur Bonnefoy, I'm not paying for the lessons."

« D'accord, Rosbif »

"Don't be so bloody cheeky! And don't wink at me like that! Wanker..."

* * *

><p>« Non, non! Arthur! What are you doing? Qu'est-ce que c'est? We're baking cookies, not hockey pucks! » Francis is frantically trying to pull the plate of disfigured lumps of dough away from the other man's mouth.<p>

"What's wrong with them?"

« They're completely inedible! Ils sont horribles! »

"They're bloody fine. Here, taste one."

« Non, merci. » Francis looks repulsed.

Arthur's enormous eyebrows knit together as he attempts to shove a chocolate chip cookie down the throat of the slightly green cooking teacher. "Just… eat a… fucking… biscuit… there, that wasn't too bad, right? Why are you spititng it out? It was fine!"

« There was nothing fine about that, Rosbif. Le prochain semaine, nous cuisinerions un dessert anglais, d'accord? »

"Ooh, which one?" Arthur's interest is piqued.

« Spotted dick. C'est ton favourite, non? » asks Francis, attempting to grope the Englishman as Arthur walks by to grab his things. All he gets for his troubles is an angry green glare, and a deep pink flush across Arthur's cheeks.

* * *

><p>"Oh my god, is the oven supposed to do that?"<p>

« _Cough_. Jamais. _Cough_ _cough_… » The two stand side by side, staring down into the baking pan, horrified.

"_Cough_... Sorry. Ew, gross..." Even Arthur has to admit, what just happened to his lovely sponge was a defiance of nature that should never be repeated, lest the cake multiply and take over the planet.

« Oui. C'est horrible. Oh mon dieu, the custard has congealed and the sponge has not risen at all... Did you remember the baking soda? »

"No?"

« Are you asking or telling ? » Francis asks smugly, slipping behind Arthur to wrap his arms around the other man's waist and to pull himself flush against the Englishman's back. Arthur lets out a little involuntary moan before breaking free.

"T-telling. I forgot."

« C'est fantastique. » Francis rolls his eyes.

"Is sarcasm really necessary?"

« Oui. Oh la la. Are these really currants? » Francis asks, poking at the little blackened fruits.

"They used to be..."

* * *

><p>"Erm... Is this any better?" Arthur is almost afraid to ask. Huge green eyes look up at his teacher from under bushy brows, begging for approval.<p>

« Ben… Qu'est-ce que c'est ? »

"What do you bloody mean, what is it? It is roast chicken, idiot! Bloody hell; are you blind as well as French?" Now Arthur is just angry. How dare this frog insult his hard work?

« Écoutez, écoutez. Arêtes avec this shouting and just… just… augh. Laisse tombe. »

"Okay, sorry." Arthur calms down. Maybe it wasn't so bad...

« Merci. Er… What is this ? »

"Potatoes." Mybe not.

« _What_ in the world did you do to them ? »

"I baked them in the oven like you said."

« For how long did you cook them ? » Francis pulls a wooden spoon out and begins to swirl around the disgusting burned bits of starch.

"Erm... three hours like you said?"

« Au quelle température ? »

"600 degrees…" Arthur mumbles, looking down and twisting his apron between his fingers.

« Mon dieu! I didn't know the oven could be set that high ! »

"I wanted to make sure that they got cooked!"

* * *

><p>"One week's finished Frog… And I haven't learned anything."<p>

« Is this your way of saying you don't want to stop taking lessons ? Aw, c'est tellement mignon, ma petit chou. »

"No, you idiot. I just want you to be prepared for not getting any pay for these classes."

« C'est d'accord, parce que j'ai un idée. I have a guest coming in who should be able to help. »

"… Who?"

« You'll see ! »

* * *

><p>"Francis? Are you in here?"<p>

« Oui, nous sommes ici. »

"Wait... is that...?"

« Oui. »

"But how do you... know him?" Arthur is shocked and so terribly excited. He feels about to hyperventilate, but doesn't care.

« We trained together. »

"Hiya, Francis. Nice to meet you, Arthur."

"... Hi!" Arthur squeaks. Francis thinks it's adorable.

"I'm guessing you're a fan?"

"A huge one! I bought all of your books and I've got almost all of your shows on DVD..."

"Ah. Did Francis tell you..."

"No, he didn't."

« I wanted it to be a surprise. I thought he'd like to meet you. »

"Well, shall we get cooking? Whoa, what the fuck is this?"

"Erm…" Arthur is blushing. "My attempt at bangers and mash."

"What the fuck did you do to them? For fuck's sake, how the fuck did you burn a hole through the fucking frying pan! Please tell me this is a fucking joke."

"No…" Arthur is near to tears. "I'm sorry…" Francis is actually quite worried about Arthur's emotional state, but seeing him so vulnerable makes the Frenchman want to run his hands all over that wiry, pale body even more…

"Good fucking God. I don't think I can do this, Francis. I'm sorry. But I just fucking can't."

« It's okay. Désole, Rosbif. »

Arthur just sniffs.

* * *

><p>« Okay, Arthur. Je ne sais pas quoi faire. »<p>

"I know."

« I've tried teaching you how to make cookies, I've tried teaching you how to roast chicken… »

"I know."

« I tried to get you to lower the temperature on the oven, but nothing was cooked all the way through. I tried to get you to raise the temperature, but everything burned. »

"I know."

« I tried to get you to measure les ingredients correctly, but you kept putting salt where there shouldn't have been salt, and baking powder where there shouldn't have been baking powder. »

"I know."

« I even tried bringing in someone who I though could teach you better than I, chef - »

"I _know_."

« Well, there's only one thing for it. I'll just have to cook for you! »

"What the hell?"

« Come on! Je te faire ton favorite! Steak and kidney pie…? »

"Fine. But keep your hands to yourself when you're in my house. Don't think I haven't notice the various times you've cupped by arse or pressed yourself up behind me to see what I'm doing."

« D'accord. » Francis lies through his teeth.

"Arthur? Asa-san?" Kiku asks, stepping delicately through the house.

* * *

><p>"Oh, shit!"<p>

« Quoi? »

"My roommate. Shit shit shit…."

"Arthur." Kiku says, standing in the doorway to the kitchen, watching Arthur scramble to get his pants on while a completely naked Francis waves lazily from the flour-covered floor.

"Erm… we we're baking?"

"Asa-san, really? I just had the kitchen sterilized last week. I can't believe you'd do this in a place where food is made!"

Arthur pouts. "I don't say _anything_ when Alfred spends the night and the two of you get come all over the couch. Why is this any different?"

It works, and Kiku blushes like mad.

"Fine. Just don't touch my mochi in the fridge. I finished making those last week and Alfred really wanted a batch."

**Whoo! This has been sitting on my computer for AGES! And now it's done. Sorry for those of you who don't understand French; review and tell me you want translations and I'll gladly provide some (yes I'm, sneaky like that).**

**Okay, I may have to make another chapter or another story that links to this, with mochi sex and Alfred and Kiku's relationship… Maybe. We'll see.**

**Oh! And the first person to guess who that celebrity chef was that I mentioned gets Arthur's burned cookies and a lovely one-shot story! I WILL WRITE FOR YOU AND WILL LOVE YOU FOREVER IF YOU CAN GUESS THIS!**


End file.
